It's the silence, man
by BravoThree
Summary: Sonny comes back after a mission. What's going on inside his head (it's basically a mess) and why does he hate it so much? Serious topics in there. Warning adult/war stuff


Hi there everyone, this is my first fanfiction on SEAL Team. English is not my first language, please excuse any mistake I'm sure I've made.  
I tried to look for a beta reader but no one is listed here as a beta for SEAL Team. If anyone is interested please let me know.

This story probably is a little messy, it's partly intented.

**It's the silence, man...**

**Everytime.**

Thick, deafening silence. It's coming back, but not coming home. Some might not understand, but there's a difference there. A big one. His body is back, sure, but his mind? His soul? Not so much.

_It's the silence, man._

It's being alone even when it looks like he's surrounded by people, family. And, it's not that he doesn't love them. he does. He does love them. To bits. But they havn't seen what he's seen. Havn't done what he's done. Havn't been where he's been. They want to understand but they can't. As much as they try. They just can't.

It's not their fault, it's not his either. Most of the time he's happy they won't ever understand. It's better for them, he believes. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, when he allows himself to be a selfish bastard, then he's mad at them for not understanding. It's unfair, he knows it. He feel guilty afterwards.

_It's the silence, man._

His life is made of three different steps in a cycle that keep repeating itself, again and again and again.

First, he's in the heat of the action. Busy military base. Busy plane. Middle of gun fights or pursuits. On the edge right between life and death, his body filled with adrenaline and a... _thrill_... of some kind.

Second, he's in the C-17, constant muffled roaring of the engines in his ears. Brothers and sisters only a step away. They talk, they laugh, they snore. A simple look at them puts him at ease.

Third... Nothing. Just nothing.

_It's the silence, man._

It grips his guts like a vice, twisting his insides until it's almost impossible to breathe.

And... Tv on, Tv off, eyes opened, eyes closed, it wouldn't matter. He'd still see their faces. The faces of the guys who no longer walks this earth. His friends. His brothers. Faces of kids that war doesn't spare, no matter their age or innocence. Faces of hostages they were too late to save. Faces of the 'ennemies', when they still have one.

And the only sounds he can hear in the utter silence are screams, explosions and gun shots.

The only things he can feel are the un-mistakable taste of iron on his tongue and this grinding sensation of sand or dust between his teeth.

_It's the silence, man._

So he drinks. He drinks until his eyes are so blurry they can't see the emptiness and loneliness of the silence anymore. He drinks until he doesn't hear said silence. Until there's a buzz in both his ears that's finally able to lull him to sleep.

Or he goes out. Sometimes with the guys. Sometimes with Davis. They drink, they talk and they laugh, as long as the bar is noisy it's fine. Great even. When neither of them are availaible he goes to stip clubs, because it's loud and he can focus on a very simple mission: Go in the pant(ies) of one of the girls there.

_It's the silence, man._

After a few days, he'll start to come back to normal, or... as normal as can be, until he'll begin to get 'stir crazy' as Lisa puts it.

It does occurs to him that more and more days are needed for 'Normal Sonny' to show up and that he stays around less and less. He wonders if one day, he won't even bother to show up.

It's scares him sometimes.

_It's the silence, man._

Nothing around brings the comfort he craves. Not even the longhorn horns and the Texas flag on the walls. They used to. Before.

The picture of his brothers, close-by, brings tears to his eyes. He doesn't always cry, but he does today. Silently. As if not to disturb the heavy silence he hates so much. It doesn't make any sense, but it is what it is.

He looks at their faces and a question he won't ever dare to ask rise in his head. A question he never wants answered. '_Which one nex...' _No... No... don't even finish that sentence. His hands tingle and he rubs them absentmindly.

He loves what he does. He does. He loves his job. He knows why he's doing it, there is no question in his mind. He'll do it until he dies or until he's forced to stop. Because, yes, he loves what he does.

**But everytime,**

**it's the silence, man...**


End file.
